Fallen Angels
by HeatherTheVillain
Summary: -MelloXMatt Yaoi- He was always second best, always a disapointment, always a failure, though Mihael Keehl is determined to change that. But can you change destiny?
1. Prologue

**0**

**Prologue**

There was a trail of blood smeared across the dark, dank alleyway trailing from the torn tissue of Mello's arm. Cursing profusely, his tone thick with anger and violence, the injured blonde raised his good hand to his shoulder, wincing as he applied pressure in an attempt to stop the bleeding. His hot, ruby blood--the only proof of his life--oozed through his pale fingers, dripping on his singed leather vest and splattering onto the tar that was spinning beneath him. Well, California _was _known for earthquakes, he reasoned to himself, justifying the sudden trembling in his vision. He was not fainting, absolutely not, he thought as the ground mysteriously grew closer and closer. No, he wasn't fainting. . . Nope. . . Not at all. . . Impossible. . . He _wasn't _fainting. . . He was _not--_

_There was only darkness and silence. _


	2. Failure

_"I can wade grief_

_Whole pools of it,-_

_I'm used that that._

_But the least push of joy_

_Breaks up my feet,_

_And I tip--drunken._

_Let no pebble milt.'_

_T was the new liquor,--_

_That was all!_

_Power is only pain,_

_Stranded, through discipline,_

_Till weights will hang." _

**Emily Dickinson**

**I**

**Failure**

_The bright lights pierced even through his tightly screwed eyelids, making him wince and mutter soft curses under his breath. Reaching up with his good hand, he frowned as the movement was stopped by something that felt like a snake crawling beneath his skin. IV, he deduced in silent fury. Then again, that handy little tube was keeping him from feeling the immense agony that he knew he should be feeling. Slowly peeling his dry, crusty lids open, his narrowed his teal eyes at the blinding lights, searing into his brain. Keeping his eyes firmly away from the horror on his left side--a surprisingly easy task given the fact that he was blind in one eye and half of his face was bandaged--he slowly sat up and pulled back the ivory sheets from his leanly muscular body, wincing as his left shoulder nearly fell out of its socket. "Fuck," he hissed, yanking the IV out of his arm and stumbling out of bed, his fingers digging into the wooden table beside his bed, knocking over the silver tray holding his medication._

_The metallic clatter must've drawn the attention of the hospital personal, for within seconds there was a nurse and a doctor lingering in his doorway screaming at him. Rolling his eyes--and swearing at the pain that simple action brought--Mello turned to stare at the duo, attempting to adjust to the loss of half his vision. _

_It was going to take a long while, he noted with a sigh of disappointment._

"_Sir!" The fat, bearded doctor yelled at him, waddling to the taller, thinner man's side, clutching onto his good arm with pudgy fingers. "You can't move!"_

_Mello, sneering down at him with distaste, yanked his arm away and walked over to the pile of his possessions lying on the spindly metal chair across the room, satisfied to see that his gun hadn't been confiscated. "Except for the fact that I totally am," he muttered dryly as he slipped his burned, blood-stained vest around his torso, stealthy continuing to hide his pistol._

"_He means that you shouldn't," the busty brunette nurse corrected in a tone that was surprisingly deep for a woman. _

"_Exactly why I'm doing it," Mello said beneath his breath as he zipped up his vest, almost trembling in pain as the leather pressed into his skin, the rough cloth of his bandages eating into the tender flesh and exposed muscle. _

"_How did you even get such a wound?" Doctor asked._

"_I blew up a building," the blonde replied with a smirk before a flash of god-awful pain burned through his veins at the gesture._

"_Excuse me?"_

"_Don't ask," Nurse suddenly chimed in, her tone a warning. Tilting his head to the side, Mello looked at the woman in narrow-eyed curiosity. She looked familiar, he noted before it hit him: he had seen her before--or, rather, her picture. It had been in the wallet of a drug lord whose brains he had splattered all over the walls of his hideout. There was no doubt in the blonde's brilliant mind that he had been recognized--he was only the leader of the North American mafia and it wasn't as if he had made his take-over subtle, either. _

_Taking care to keep his expression completely blank--to keep from blowing his cover and to keep from hurting his mangled face--Mello stepped into his leather boots, not bothering to lace them. He swiped the painkillers beside his bed, along with plucking the paper prescription from the doctor's pocket and stuck it in the waist of his jeans since he had no pockets. Maneuvering past the frantic doctor, Mello made his way to the nurse, never breaking eye contact with her furious gaze. Once he was beside her, he murmured, "You'll never find the body," before slipping out the hospital door._

_Even when he could barely move his lips, he still managed to piss someone off, he noted as he heard the wounded howling from his former room . . . _

...

Failed.

He had failed.

He was a failure.

No matter how many times he told himself this or was told by those around him, Mello couldn't wrap his mind around the concept.

Hot water poured down his back, burning the sensitive skin and rippling like fire on his still-healing, faintly scarred wounds. It had been three long weeks of agony, boredom, and frustration since he was forced to blow up his hide-out to evade Kira. The injuries he had received from the explosion had left him both useless and helpless, meaning that all he could do was grit his teeth and bear both the wait and the pain, both physical and psychological. It was amazing he had even survived at all--not just the explosion, which was fatal in itself. But, there was also the nearly two mile walk from the site of his former hideout, the severe blood loss he had suffered in the alley, and the infection that had nearly cost him his arm as a result of refusing proper medical care.

Oh, that part had been so very fun, he recalled bitterly: there was the lovely yellow pus that had oozed from his broken, swollen flesh like lava from a volcano. And the raging fever that had made him so sick and so dizzy he spent three straight days vomiting and fainting. Not to mention the few hours where he temporarily lost the ability to move or even feel the limb. Finally, he killed his pride and got himself to the hospital, where he was told by the doctors that he had a staff infection and minor blood poisoning as well. Four days later, he was finally allowed to leave after swearing under oath to take his medication and bathe and clean his wound properly. Good times, good times . . .

Gritting his teeth slightly as the fiery needles of water pierced at his shoulder, Mello could only think of one thing that kept him alive: faith. Not faith in God or some other higher power, though. Even though Mello was a Catholic, a strict belief he'd gained from his traditional Russian family, it wasn't God that kept him going in this world. It wasn't God whom he prayed to when he fell on hard times or God he turned to in times of fear or unease. It wasn't God whom he had made his promises and confessions to.

It was Mello himself.

All his life, Mello was weak. Even though he presented an image of being ruthless and powerful, the truth was that beneath the leather and the lean muscles he had crafted he was the same small, frail child he had been when his parents were murdered. He was a coward. He couldn't save his parents. He couldn't save his brother. Hell, he couldn't even save himself. Who was he to think that he could save the world from Kira?

But it wasn't like that, was it? There was nothing righteous or noble about Mello's quest to catch Kira. It had nothing to do with justice as it had been for L or appeared to be for Near. It was all about self-gratification. For Mello, the fall of Kira was just another stepping stone on his epic mission to prove himself: to prove that he was the best to the rest of the world and to prove to himself to he was worth anything at all . . .

Pulling his palms from the steamy linoleum wall they had been anchored to, Mello stepped back from beneath the waterfall of his shower and turned off the water, watching the last few streams swirl around the drain and disappear. Sodden golden hair was plastered to his skull and neck, itching over the scarred side of his face. Feeling water roll down his cheeks like teardrops, Mello sighed and pulled back the French-style sliding glass doors of the shower. Running a towel through his hair and gently over his lean body, he fastened the towel around his waist and stepped out of the bathroom.

Steam and cigarette smoke filled the air as Mello stepped into the living room. Wrinkling his nose at the rancid combination of stale coffee, aged pizza, and bitter nicotine, he sighed and snapped, "How many fucking times do I have to tell you not to smoke that shit in the house?"

The object of his anger was, as usual, Matt. Settled in a corner of the expansive and oddly dark living room was a tall, lanky redhead surrounded by computers, nearly glowing in the shadowy room, his pink stripes and cigarette tip flared. His eyes, covered by yellow-tinted goggles, didn't even look at the blonde as he entered the room. Matt had known Mello since he was twelve and he remained all but unaffected by his bad temper. Gloved fingers clicking away at his DS, he replied in a mutter, "I can't work unless I'm smoking, you know that."

"You're not even working!" Mello cried indignantly.

At that, Matt tilted his shaggy red head up a bit and glared in Mello's direction. "The hell I'm not," he said darkly.

"It's my apartment and I'm telling you not smoke in it," the blonde said a stern tone; it was a voice that usually made everyone who heard it crumble.

Usually. "It's also your Kira case and your mess which I am kindly getting your sorry ass out of," Matt retorted, a light smirk tugging his lips around his cigarette.

"Gee, thanks, Matt," Mello murmured dryly, always delighted to have the hacker around to punch holes in his ego.

Matt shrugged his vested-shoulders. "I'm a giver."

Frowning, Mello walked over the windows, bare feet sinking into the plush carpeting as he pulled open the thick, black drapes. Hearing Matt hiss as warm sunlight flooded the room, he leaned over the cringing boy's shoulder and raked his eyes over the screen. Even though Mello was humorously technologically illiterate, it didn't stop him from trying to enter the twenty-first centaury--and nearly break all of the expensive equipment he and Matt had acquired to catch Kira. Sighing at the cluster of numbers, symbols, and colors that was meaningless to his untrained eyes, he turned to Matt and asked, "Any progress?"

Matt sighed as well. "Nope," he muttered with a frown. His game squealed and crackled as he died, causing the redhead to curse under his breath. Switching the tiny machine off for the first time in nearly a week, he slid his goggles to his forehead and looked at Mello. "The system is tightly rigged; even _I'm_ having a hard time hacking it,"

Mello's frown deepened; Matt was a world-renowned technological genius. If he couldn't do this job, then nobody could. And then, Kira would slip right through Mello's fingers and right into Near's hands. Grimacing at the thought, he asked in a low, rough tone, "Can you break it?"

Matt grinned. "Of course I can. There's no such thing as a system I can't crack. But, it's going to take a bit of time, more than usual. Can you be patient?" He asked with a sarcastic smirk.

"Just do it," the blonde ordered under his breath, scowling at Matt as he pulled away and stomped off to his bedroom.

"Yes, master!" Matt yelled after him, his tone sharp as Mello slammed the door.

Another failure, Mello thought, sighing as he tossed the towel onto his perfectly made bed. Granted, it wasn't a true failure--more like a road-block, really--but to Mello it was all the same. Once again, he couldn't get what he wanted.

But, he'd be lying to himself if he denied that this frustration, this writhing wasn't part of the fun. For, when the time came when all his doubts and fears had been erased, when all his hard work had paid off, it would be all the more sweet to look into the eyes of everyone he'd just proved wrong.

Mello couldn't live a normal life like most human beings did, nor did he especially want to. There was a time when he had craved the safety and comfort of his childhood, but years of crawling in the filth of the underworld had killed such desires. Like all the children of Wammy's House, Mello would live a short and painful life. In his eyes, however, that didn't mean he couldn't be happy.

He just had to be fucking miserable at the same time.

And he was.

Hopefully, the skipping through the daises joy would soon follow. . .


	3. Obsession

[A/N: Thanks to everyone for reading and supporting this story. It means so much to me. Enjoy.]

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"O, dreadful is the check — intense the agony

When the ear begins to hear and the eye begins to see;

When the pulse begins to throb, the brain to think again,

The soul to feel the flesh and the flesh to feel the chain."

**~ "The Prisoner" by Emily Bronte.**

**II**

**Obsession **

_Hazy moonlight poured into their room at Wammy's House, turning everything, including Matt himself, into a patchwork of sliver and onyx. While the rest of __Quillsh Wammy's prodigies were huddled snuggly in their borrowed beds in the rooms that weren't truly theirs, two of the orphanages brightest were, as always, rebelling against the system--along with the laws of God, man, and biology._

_The aged, Victorian mansion was completely silent except for the muted, utterly human sounds coming from the bedroom that Matt and Mello shared. They were so soft, you would most certainly have to pay close attention to catch even a murmur. But they were surely there and, like everything else from this night, they would be burned in Matt's mind for all eternity._

_The pain was, of course, one of the most glaring examples. Despite Mello's rather intense warning, Matt hadn't been prepared. Never in his wildest dreams did he think it would be _this _bad. Maybe if he had had even a inkling of the agony that would sear through his flesh and bones, he wouldn't have agreed to this little encounter. . . _

_No, that wasn't true. He would never change his mind, ever. Matt wanted this more than he had ever desired anything in his short life. In a twisted way, the pain was welcomed--it reassured him that this moment was real. That, no matter what happened between them in the future, even if it was just in the blink of an eye, they had had each other in a way nobody else ever had before. _

_Despite his heart's impossibly strong resolve, Matt's body was either not registering the message or choosing to ignore it. Involuntary tears poured from his narrowed azure eyes, forcing him to sniffle in order to properly breathe. At that, Mello hissed slightly and clamped his bony, puberty-stretched hand over Matt's damp lips._

"_Would you shut _up_? If you keep bitching and crying, we're going to get caught!" He growled, bending dangerously close to Matt's face in order to keep his volume low. Matt was amazed that, even though they were already so close--literally attached to one another--Mello's close proximity was still enough to make him blush. _

"_It hurts. . . " He whined, tiny voice muffled by Mello's fingers._

"_I told you it would, idiot," Mello scolded, though his fine golden eyebrows drew together in concern. After a moment, his expression softened and his face was very unsure. That expression made him look so much truer to his childish age than the bitter, arrogant smirk his handsome features were usually twisted into. It made Matt love him even more, if such a thing were possible; he didn't think it was. "Should . . . should I . . . stop?" He asked in a whisper, clearly a bit fearful of his friend's response. _

_Matt frantically shook his head from side to side, eyes wide in pleading. He didn't trust his voice at all and the last thing he wanted to do was say something ridiculously stupid--like what he truly felt. For now, it was enough just to have Mello here with him like this--he wasn't going to push his luck and beg for more. Matt had no illusions about his companion and even if he indulged in the occasional silly fantasy, he was never desperate or dumb enough to truly believe in them. Even if it hurt, he recognized the very clears lines between his dreams and Mello's reality. _

_Mello bit down on his lower lip slightly, sucking it into his mouth and nibbling on it. It was a nervous habit that Matt had always remembered the blonde having, but now it nearly made him quiver with desire. Even if Mello was re-thinking their fairly disastrous attempt at sex, Matt certainly wasn't. If anything, he wanted more and his body was certainly making that obvious. A bit subconsciously, his hips had began to thrust upwards and pull Mello deeper, making them both shudder and causing small noises of both agony and ecstasy to spill from Matt's parted lips. He was honestly expecting Mello to reprimand him for his outburst, but the blonde was too busy trying to keep his composure--and break Matt's--to make note. In fact, he seemed to be trying to recreate the occurrence, which made Matt equally exhilarated and terrified. While he wanted Mello close, he was painfully afraid of making a mistake or not satisfying his friend. That thought a lot was enough to make him a bit queasy. He absolutely wouldn't be able to stand himself if Mello hadn't gotten some sort of pleasure from their encounter. Well, there was only one way to make that happen, Matt realized, though his stomach spun as he considered his options. He was far too young to know exactly what he was doing, so he went with instinct and the four or so minutes of experience he had just recently garnered. _

_Experimentally, Matt bucked his hips once again, eyes trained on Mello's face as he waited to see what type of response he would receive. Apparently, he had done something right, for he watched as Mello's eyelids fluttered and his teeth drew faint droplets of blood as he sunk them into his lip to restrict his cries. Feeling a bit smug--though still ready to vomit with nerves nonetheless--Matt reenacted the move, though he gasped in surprise and electric pleasure as Mello ground down into him. _

_They continued this slow, swirling awkward routine for what felt like an eternity until finally, the release they both had been seeking for years burst upon them. Sweating, shaking, concealing soft mewls of pleasure and still a bit of pain on Matt's part, they clung to each other throughout the night, a strange sort of peace hovering around their delicate selves for the first time in years. Matt quite literally felt like he was in heaven and oddly enough, the bliss had nothing to do with the fact that he could still feel Mello inside him, even though the blonde has disengaged himself minutes, maybe even hours ago. It was because Mello had finally, _finally _let him in, even though to others it would appear that it was the other way around. No, Matt knew differently. He had spent years praying to the god that Mello cherished and he himself had no faith in, asking for Mello to drop those walls just the slightest bit. And, that night, he had. _

_In the morning, everything was different, but not the sort of "different" Matt had been anticipating. He was expecting a rocky, unsure atmosphere to swarm him the moment Mello saw he was awake, since the blonde always rose first, if he had even slept at all. Instead, he woke up alone and the minute he opened his eyes to the empty bed and stained sheets, a wave of utter terror tore through his body. Had Mello left him because he wasn't good enough? Was Mello mad at him for starting the whole encounter? Did the blonde not want to be his friend anymore, not even want to talk to him? Matt had to wait three agonizing hours to finally get his answer, too sore and scared to leave their room and track down his companion. _

_At that time, Matt had felt like he had lost his innocence. Not because of the way Mello had pounded into his and the feelings that quite literally bubbled up from that embrace. No, he had thought being a part of the Wammy's House had stripped him of all childish notions. After all, what creature could still be reasonably called a child when they were bred to blossom, crumble, and die all in the span of a few scant years? It was impossible, or so he thought. Looking back on it, he had so much to learn, so much to see, but if he had the opportunity, Matt wouldn't spare his younger self the pain. Because, even if it would have helped the troubled little boy avoid the years of absolute misery that were soon to consume him, at least that small, frail, loving child had had one night of peace and passion. And that was more than the almost-but-not-quite adult Matt could even dream of. _

_That morning, the day after the Matt had lost his virginity, the world that he had cherished and certainly taken for granted was destroyed. L was dead, Mello has disappeared, and the redhead was left alone._

_Again._

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Matt had always suspected that Roger had a bit of a twisted sense of humor. Maybe he was over-compensating for the fact that Wammy's House wasn't really his, that he was just borrowing the keys to Watari's Barbie Dreamhouse. Or maybe he was just taking rather merciless stabs at the children it was clear he didn't care for or even like. Whatever the reason, there was really no other way to explain the ridiculous codenames the children were assigned.

L had been lucky--being the spoiled little brat he was, the child prodigy was allowed to pick his own title. And so, he decided upon the most simple of choices: his own name. Of course, no one would ever guess that the twelfth letter of the English alphabet was the infamous detective's real name. After all, what person in their right mind would name a child "L"? The answer was simple: no one would. L had not had normal parents, nor did he even get to savor his childhood. But Matt chose not to think about that; he found it disrespectful to think of their fallen idol in such crude terms.

The point was, only L had had any choice in the matter. The rest of the children of Wammy's House were subject to suffer whatever insane title Roger wanted to give them. Matt had noticed a pattern and, for once, he seemed to be the only one to pick up on it: the more gifted the child, the more impossible the alias. For example, there was Linda, a girl who was a gifted painter but about as smart as a box of rocks. And then there was Mello and Near. In theory, Matt had always suspected that their names were somehow in relation to their personalities. Like Near, who was brilliant beyond belief, but simply wasn't L. He was close to the perfection Watari demanded of his children, but not quite there. Still, that was no comparison to Mihael Keehl--popularly known as the one thing he wasn't: Mello.

But where did that leave Mail Jeevas? The redhead had always wondered why Roger had bequeathed such a bland name upon the third successor of L. It wasn't as if Matt was unremarkable; in his own way, he had skills that Near and Mello could barely dream of, which why he was such an asset to the computer-illiterate blonde. He had a habit of playing himself down, borne from his childhood and nourished by Mello's thirst for power and recognition, but it was clear that Mail was not your average child. So why had Roger given him such a title?

Another of Matt's theories was that Roger had given them these names to show what they were lacking. Near's was a sign that, unlike L, he could not work alone, that he would need help. And, the cold albino has seemed to take to that lesson rather well, given that he was even willing to work with Mello of all people to catch Kira. Mello's--well, that was quite obvious: _calm the fuck down, idiot_. So what the hell was "Matt" supposed to mean?

Surprisingly, it had taken the name maverick quite some time to place "Matt" with his alias. For the first few months at Wammy's, the shy redhead was simply known as he true name. But, eventually Roger, with an odd sort of smile on his face, had baptized Matt nearly a half a year after he walked through the orphanages' wrought iron gates. And Mail had been Matt ever since, even though he didn't much care or understand such a name.

Now, almost a decade later, sitting in Mello's expansive New York City apartment, his face bleached by the glow of his many computers while his "boss" brooded in his bedroom, Matt thought he might've had the slightest inkling of understanding. Matt was just a letter away from "mat," and that's exactly what he was: a doormat, so pliable and unimportant that, if one was a certain temperamental blonde ex-Mafia boss, they could feel free to stomp all over him and wipe their muddy boots upon his face.

The mere thought of being the dog to some brat with an inferiority complex made Matt quiver a bit with rage. Yet it was undeniable, for here he was, plucked from the safe confounds of Wammy's and now assisting his former friend on the hunt for the most bloodthirsty killer in the history of the human race. And he was doing all for a man who would never even thank him, let alone---

_No_. The word was firm in Matt's mind, as solid and cold as Artic ice. He wasn't going down that road again--he _couldn't_. It was a train of thought that would only bring him misery and plunge him into a state of numb despair that would render him utterly useless to Mello. So Matt froze out his mind and his heart and continued the job that Mello expected him to do.

For once in his life, the hacker was stumped towards his objective. The firewall that protected the SPK's system was one of the strongest he had encountered, if not _the _strongest. After all, Matt had been making a living as a technological invader since the tender age of twelve, giving him plenty of time to perfect his craft and hone his already impressive skills. He was cracking systems and hacking countries and getting paid more money than imaginable before he could even drive. And yet, for all his ability, this task, the most important one of all, was damn near impossible for him.

Sighing in frustration, Matt stretched, his thin muscles and lean figure cracking and popping after being hunched over for hours. Flopping back on the couch, he snuggled into the leather for a moment before, blushing slightly, he caught himself and simply laid down. He had to be careful now, lest Mello beat the crap out of him at even the slightest thread of humanity faintly breathing beneath Matt's hardened exterior.

Matt honestly wondered at times whether or not Mello was capable of harming him and the conclusion he reached was not a good one. Many, many times daily the redhead had to remind himself that the creature he lived with was not in fact "his" Mello. This blonde menace was not the same full-faced, ruffled haired fair angel whom had befriended Matt as a child partly out of pity, partly out of curiosity, and maybe a bit out of kindness. This wasn't even the moody, zealous teenager that Matt had begrudgingly accepted and eventually came to love just as much the rascal that had once been there. No, this leather-clad monster was something else entirely and Matt couldn't deny that he feared the "new" Mello.

But he also couldn't deny that he still loved him. no matter what visage the blonde took, Matt's feelings didn't change, didn't even dim. If anything, there were stronger, the chains wound around Matt's neck made even stronger by the fact that the master on the other end was so very cruel and merciless.

He had to be one sick fuck, to keep putting himself through this, to chase after some intangible, inhumanly dazzling monster that was forever just out of his grasp. There was a point when he had been close, so close he was literally clinging to Mello, but that time had long passed, a memory that Matt wouldn't believe was real if it wasn't permanently carved into the unwavering stony canvas of time and space. And now he was back at square one, with absolutely no clue how to handle the person he once knew better than himself.

He had to be a fool to agree to this, to think there was still a piece of the person he once knew beneath this thick, leathery hide. But that was it, that was the key: agreement. Matt had _never _agreed to this, not in words. One moment, he was at Wammy's, staring into Mello stern, wounded face and the next he was on a plane to Los Angeles, still dazed and delirious over the way that his life had been turned on it's ass. Mello had called and Matt had answered. There were no thoughts, no words, no consideration at all--it was instinct, a reflex programmed into him to simply bend to Mello's iron will. He couldn't have fought it, even if he'd wanted to and he surely didn't.

The children of Wammy's House were cursed before they even entered the notorious building. They all came from broken homes and emerged equally damaged children, wise and brilliant while being trapped in bodies still packed with baby-fat. It was evil, to be frank, and maybe that was why they all clustered together. Perhaps the Fates had smiled upon these forgotten, unholy demons and threw them together so that they would not live and die in utter misery. It was the only conclusion Matt could come to, of why he would so blindly follow such a beautiful disaster.

For it wasn't just love. It had to be something more, something darker, something so raw and wicked and lovely no normal human being could comprehend it.

It was the same insanity that pushed Mello to the brink of life and death just to prove he could, the same poison that coated L's veins and caused him to die at the hands of Kira, his most adored lover and bitterly hated enemy. And it was the same blind devotion that would most likely lead Matt to his death. It had been driving men and women mad for ages, pulling apart their brains and spitting in the synapses left naked and empty. It had been tearing out hearts and feeding them to the lions, leaving nothing but icy darkness in their wake. Clear as night, dark as day, as sensible as schizophrenia.

Obsession.

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_All his life, Mihael Keehl had been a golden child--and that statement has nothing to do with his fair locks of hair. It would seem that from the moment he left his mother's womb--approximately two minutes and seven seconds after his twin brother Aleksander--Mihael was blessed. He was an intelligent, sweet child, beautiful in both his appearance and his heart. The center of his wealthy brood, his family lavished affections on him beyond belief. It was as if the child existed in his own paradise, a perfect fantasy world._

_But, in every fairy tale, there is a monster, a force of evil ready and willing to pull the poor, innocent heroic child in darkness, into death. And Mihael was no different. Seven years (seven--isn't that always a magic number in folklore?) he was found by Russian police laying in a pool of blood. It wasn't his own, but God how he wished it was. _

_The scene was eerie enough without the mirrors. Not mirrors of glass--no, _true _mirrors, the kind that only two humans, so alike and so different but still so close, could form. Even in death, the twins were still attached. Hand in hand, but not in death, though Mihael was so pale and so very still it was amazing he was alive. To this day, sometimes he still couldn't believe he wasn't dead. If he was, this life was certainly Hell. _

_Years later, on a day when Mello was feeling particularly masochistic, he had had Matt hack into the Russian's police's data-frame. With the redhead being his usual dangerously curious and overtly nosy self, Mello read the file in stone-faced silence. He refused to vomit--or, worse, cry. That was simply not an option for Mello. But, no amount of walls could kill his reaction to the photos, the images of his slain family that conjured up memories with more than just the sights of that horrible night. _

_Despite this, Mello would never regret his trip down memory-lane. No, it was simply fuel for the fire of rage, inferiority, and determination that boiled within his teenage self. It was the reason he would never look back. It was the reason he _had _to win._

_Or die trying._

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Droplets of blood spotted along the contours of the pristine white bathroom like a macabre attempt at decoration. Like the tears of Christ himself, the semi-healed scars along the sharp planes of Mello's handsome face were leaking, as they had a tendency to do. But only because this martyr was not as peaceful, patient, or even as _sane _as the one he admired.

In truth, the wounds had been healing up nicely--"had" being the operative word, of course. With Matt's stubborn healthcare and Mello's bitter, begrudging acceptance of the TLC, the infection that had turned his blood to poison slowly, but steadily cleared away, giving the mangled tissue its first real chance to mend. True, Mello's once-perfect pretty face would never be completely smooth and whole once again, but it was better than said pretty face rotting cell by cell six feet under his grave. Mello hadn't given much thought to the loss, although he was certainly not pleased with the fact he was most likely permanently blind in his left eye and partially deaf in that ear as well. Other than this, the ripples of scar tissue that zigzagged around his leanly muscular form like a child's map didn't affect his ego. After all, he was gorgeous and he knew it--why fret? And, if his arrogant charm ever wavered, all he had to do was look into Matt's eyes and any distortion faded--as long as he determinedly ignored all the messy emotions that were reflected back at him.

No, what bothered Mello about these wounds, about the face staring back at him whenever he sullenly glared into the bathroom mirror was, as always, the subtext. Mello could never take anything at face-value--pun not intended. He was forever plumbing the depths and meanings of the simplest, and sometimes stupidest, things life had to offer. Perhaps it was a left-over facet from his ultra-philosophical parents or maybe it was the product of forever being second-best. Whatever the case, Mello was certainly the type who could sulk away his life. And, for all intents and purposes, that was what he was doing.

Sure, he was putting on a brave face--again, no pun intended--peering at the computers and listening to the explanations and theories and facts of those around him with falsely intent interest. But the truth was, he was lost. He was lost to go about searching for Kira now.

He had once had a plan, a strict and methodical--though rationally foolish--idea of how to take down the stupid man-child-God-bastard that had murdered his mentors. But, when his Mafia minions and his own flesh had been blown to high-Hell, all his careful, puzzle-pieces strategies had left his genius mind, washed out of his brain and mixed with the blood that still stained the alley-way he had crumpled in. And now, in the unintentional reprieve his failing health had cornered him into, the gears of his prized intelligence simply weren't turning like the once had, too dulled by time and too jammed by his dark musings and twisted, broken off plots.

Maybe, all those years ago, Roger was right--maybe Mello simply wasn't meant to be L. More and more lately the stark differences between master and apprentice, if one wished to be so dramatic in wording, were becoming painfully black and white. If anything, Mello was, to his horror, more like Kira: a power-hungry mad-man with a brilliant mind sick with insanity. And, despite his strict faith, the idea of being a God was appealing to the all too human blonde. For if he were a deity, he could shut off all the regrets and taunts and self-loathing buzzing around his skull like manic bees.

It was all so ironic, how the Wammy Children lived and died. Their brains saved them, at first, on the surface, but as the years drew on it slowly destroyed them, picking at the pillars of their thin sanity and plucking them apart piece by crazed piece. There was a time when this certainly hadn't applied to Mello. So deprived of conscience and second-thought was the young Mafia tyrant that he had no need to question or attack himself. While running the Mafia, he'd had enough enemies that he had no need to add himself to the battle. But, that was a time when he was surrounded by people. The fact that he despised these filthy excuses for men had no barring, for their idiocy and inquires had prevented the sort of "in-your-head" world that had unraveled his predecessors. But now, with the exception of Matt, Mello was on his own. And really, Matt hardly counted, since, other than giving orders about the case and snapping at the redhead for constantly picking at his humanity, they didn't speak. It was far-cry from the connection between two teenage boys that had been so strong things like time and gravity and even death seemed flimsy in comparison.

Mello was becoming the one thing he swore he wouldn't become, a tiny promise shadowed by all that he swore he would claim for himself: a true Wammy Child. When he lived in that hellish funhouse of childhood nightmares, Mello had never once considered the orphanage to be anything more than a stepping stone, a stop on the path that was winding towards his goal to be the best. True, it was only through Quillsh Wammy's guidance that said dream was fully realized, but other than that Mello gave no personal consideration to the place he has swallowed almost eight years of his life, nothing more than a human butterfly pinned to the wall. After all, he had a home, even if that place only existed in his memories and just barely lingered in the wood and concrete of his Russian mansion; he had no desire to overlap those bittersweet recollects with any particle of the institution. But, to the children who had nothing but blank voids for their childhoods, Wammy's was all they had, always a frightening notion to Mello, and he had worked hard to keep Matt from falling into the stereotype; in hindsight, perhaps the redhead would've been better off not being welded to Mello at the hip--perhaps the separation might've been less painful, if such a thing were even possible.

Sighing faintly, Mello flipped his wrist and began to wipe away the blood that had piled on his ridged skin. Thankfully, it seemed that the flow had calmed, meaning he hadn't done so much damage when he had literally clawed his own face off. _Spiffy_, he thought dryly as he reached over and began mummy-wrapping his good hand in toilet paper. _Matt is going to fucking kill me for this_.

Over the past few weeks, Mello had become something of a pet project to the hacker. His eyes seemingly infinitely brighter whenever Mello mumbled and whined for Matt to help patch his blonde Humpy-Dumpy back together again, fingers so much softer and thoughtful as they traced the broken flesh then when they were slamming away at the keys of his many computers. Perhaps, unbeknownst to Mello, the boy had had a secret interest in medicine. But the concept of Mello not knowing something about Matt was all but impossible for the former Mafia boss to grasp. After all, he knew everything about Matt--he _literally _knew the boy from the inside out.

Despite the fact that Mello had been wavering on the edge of death for much of their recent quality time, he wasn't sick--or stupid--enough not to catch the stench of rotted emotions. It was not an easy brew to swallow and it got harder to taste every time he opened his after the acid-trip dreams his painkillers provoked. The tension was so awkward and so thick, it was a wonder either of them were still alive. Things hadn't even been this bad after those first few years of puberty when they couldn't even so much as look at each other without getting a hard-on. It had seemed monstrous at the time, but maybe that was just a sign of how very sheltered they were. Not that Wammy's House had anything to do with since a disjointed paradise; the only reason Roger let the two boys continue to share a room when the rumors of sexual deviance rolled around was because L had told him that Mello would rampage if _his _Matt was taken away. And L was right. He always was.

Not that they had actually been involved then, of course. Only Matt and Mello knew when that pivotal red dot on their relationship timeline had taken place. But they had been close enough and that was simply dangerous. Human emotion was frowned upon in the harsh breeding grounds of Wammy, but it was impossible to permanently stunt their hearts. They were children, for God's sake. No matter how much testing and punishment and bloodthirsty competition they had shed their blood and tears for, at the end of the day, all they wanted were the same things that all children, all people, wanted: love. And love was perhaps the worst thing that could happen to a Wammy Child. It would ruin them, break them, leave them alone and lonely and with nothing.

Against his iron-will of denial and arrogance, Mello was unfortunately forced to see exactly why personal relations had been so forbidden. Already he could tell how muddied his judgment. Already his biggest concern had slipped from catching Kira to protecting Matt. It was almost laughable, in a way: for all the horns and thorns his metamorphosis had mutated, he really hadn't changed at all. He was still the same stupid kid who would throw everything away just to see Matt smile at him.

The slam of the front door made Mello flinch in surprise and he pressed the thin cloth of the paper harder against his skin. The white was already coated and consumed with his blood and felt moist in his clenched fist. Shooting his reflection one last scowl in that merciless mirror, he sat on the edge of the tub and listened to the clattering of life in his apartment.

It never ceased to amaze him just how _loud _Matt was. Maybe it was because, in his years in the Mafia he had grown accustomed to living like a shadow, very much the walk softly and carry a big stick approach. Or maybe it was because they hadn't lived together in years that Mello had forgotten the way Matt seemed to an exude an aura of breathing individuality.

The sound of whistling, sharp and joyfully out of tune, made Mello's eyes narrow. This whole situation was so bizarre: they were drowning in the Kira case, fighting for their lives, not too mention dueling over their own personal differences, and here Matt was, prancing around like the fucking Pied Piper. He took _nothing _seriously--was it possible he really _wasn't_ worried about what Kira could and would do to him? That he trusted Mello enough to guide him in the right direction? At that thought, Mello frowned. It was certainly a viable option, considering that since the age of ten Matt had always been his blonde friend's number one cheerleader. Hopefully, that faith would be rightfully rewarded. Hopefully they wouldn't both close this little fairy tale in coffins.

Keys clattered on the marble counter and the rustling of bags made Mello breathe a slight sigh of relief. After a week of playing games with their blood-pressure from subsisting on Ramen, coffee, cigarettes for Matt and chocolate for Mello, they finally had decent food in the house once again. _Thank _God, Mello thought coolly. He would shoot his idiot roommate if he hadn't followed the list exactly as Mello had delivered it. Considering how Matt usually worked, Mello was already mentally cleaning his gun.

"Honey, I'm home!" Matt called out and Mello could picture, with effortless clarity, the pronounced smirk on the redhead's face. After a silent pause, he laughed and added, "Aw, don't be like that, Darling! After all I've done for you, this is the thanks I get? Bull-_fucking_-shit."

Smirking faintly, Mello replied, "I'm in the bathroom."

Instantly, Matt's tone changed. The stomping of boots was a prelude to the fit that Matt was about to pitch. "If you're bleeding, Mello, so help me God--!" He began angrily, cutting off mere seconds before his handsome face, contorted in a strange form of anger, appeared in the doorway. Silent for a moment, Matt simply stared at Mello before sighing heavily. "Jesus, Mello," he murmured, sounding exasperated at all his unraveled work and perhaps in wonder at Mello's self-mutilating persistence.

"Matt, don't take the Lord's name in vain," Mello chastised in a flat voice, seemingly unaffected by Matt's concern. In reality, his sharp gaze was picking the boy apart and analyzing every piece. Not that he needed to.

Not appreciating the belittlement, Matt snorted in a very unladylike fashion. "Mel, you know I don't drink the Kool-Aid."

"And you know I guzzle the grape by the dozen, so don't fucking start with me," Mello snapped back, though much of his tone's impact was lost when the gesture made his features contort in pain.

Chuckling blackly, Matt began to dig through the cabinets in search of the medical supplies that were quickly replacing Mello's position as best friend--_if _that claim was even still his. "Chill, Goldilocks. You'll burst even more blood-vessels at this rate," he muttered as he lay his tools on the polished clear title with a heavy _clunk_!

"Ha-ha--_so _humorous," Mello muttered, watching Matt in unpleasant anticipation.

"Oh, no, it is. Though, probably best you don't think so. Laughter can only hurt you at this point."

"And here I thought it was the best medicine," the blonde mused in a flat voice.

"Heh. No shit," Matt said with a pronounced smirk as he over-turned a bottle of four-smelling chemical in his long-fingered hands, spreading over the cluster of cotton balls in his palm. Swallowing a bit, Mello's expression was not welcoming as the peroxide-soaked cotton in Matt's hand inched near his face. Sighing heavily, the redhead muttered in frustration, "You do this _every time_."

"It hurts," Mello whined, still sounding surprisingly manly given that his ass was sliding across the linoleum and away from fairly harmless mountains of fluff.

"Of _course _it does, dumbass! And who's fucking fault is that? _You _blew up the fucking building. _You _refused medical treatment. And _you _keep _picking _at it. So let me see!" Grimacing, Matt all but pulled Mello into his lap as he dragged the blonde by fisting the leather of his jacket. "God, Mello, you're such a girl sometimes. And here I thought that was just your appearance," he jabbed to distract Mello as he pressed the sodden cotton just beneath his jaw, gracing over a broken scab that was particularly large and still slightly infected. "Stubborn little wanker," Matt cursed softly, sliding closer to inspect the damage. "How the _hell _does this keep happening? I've been pumping you with drugs and sewing you up like a freakin' rag doll for weeks and you _still _manage to fall apart on me, how?" Catching sight of the blood on Mello's fingertips, he sucked in a harsh breath but said nothing.

Silence swallowed them and the quiet was stifling. Frowning both in both physical and psychological pain, Mello said stiffly, "If there's something you want to say, do it, or else pull the stick out of your ass."

"I hope you realize how easily I could be pouring acid on your skin," Matt muttered back, eyes trained intently on a mound of healthy skin tissue circling Mello's collarbone. Feeling Mello's gaze burn through him, he sighed and reluctantly met it. "I have nothing to say to you. Your inner ear must be made of Teflon because you don't register a word."

"Selective Teflon," Mello corrected with a predatory smile. "It's not that I can't listen, I simply choose not to."

"Oh, I'm well-aware of that." Lips pulled him in a snarl, Matt jabbed the cotton beneath Mello's eye in retaliation, making him swear in pain.

"Matt, what the _fuck_?! What is _wrong _with you?!" Mello demanded, prepared to bend the skinny wrist into uselessness if it attacked him again.

"You're lucky I took mercy on that busted-up mug of yours--I could've slapped you, like I wanted to. Like I should have. I'm too nice," Matt concluded solemnly as he continued to tend to the wounds, albeit much gentler and more thoroughly.

"That and slapping me would be distinctly not a manly reaction. Men don't slap."

"True, true--fine, then I'll _punch _you next time."

"_Hell _no. Like I'd let you."

"You underestimate me. Makes me wanna cry a little," Matt mocked, adding a tiny sniffle for effect as he began to gently trail the cotton over the worst part of the scar, Mello's cheek.

At the movement, Mello shivered slightly, but not in pain. Well, not physical pain, at least. "Poor you," he muttered, ignoring the heat coursing through his veins. Matt smirked before pulling his hand away to his patient's mingled pleasure and disappointment, tossing the rest of the cotton balls in the trash. Mello breathed an audible sigh of relief. "So, Nurse Matt, what's the diagnosis? How much longer do I have?" He asked, words taking on a much darker tone than their current context warranted.

It was one that Matt, familiar with Mello's merciless taunts and cold, nasty humor, naturally caught. Frowning, he twisted himself to face the blonde directly. "That isn't even funny," he said quietly before adding, "And however long your life lasts depends on you." _Oh_, _how very true that is_, Mello thought, but didn't comment. His answers would only drive Matt into a hysterical tizzy and that was so _not _needed at this moment. "In all seriousness. . . Mello, you can't keep doing this to yourself. Modern science has come pretty far, but I don't think they can transplant a human head. And we kinda need your smarts to survive this all this Kira jazz."

"Ha, of course. If I was a vegetable and all that stood between Kira and world domination was your sorry self, humanity would be fucking screwed," Mello muttered with a bark of a chuckle.

"I'm glad you find your death so funny. At least one of us does," Matt said sharply, all traces of humor gone from his face.

At that Mello stopped short, eyes widened in surprise. "Matt, I didn't--"

"Because that's what is happening here and I don't mean this fun new self-injury habit you've developed."

"Who the hell do you think you are?"

"The only person in this God-forsaken world that still gives a flying fuck about your miserable existence," Matt replied, fiery green eyes boring into Mello's in a way that nearly made the blonde twitch with discomfort. "And, more importantly, I'm the sorry bastard who has to put up with you."

"Excuse me?"

"Have you seen yourself lately? All you do is sulk and mope and hide like you're the Hunchback of fucking Notre Dame? You won't help me on the case, you won't touch your chocolate--shit, you won't even yell at me for not cracking Near's server! Who _are _you?" Matt demanded suddenly. "Because you're certainly not the person _I_ know and you're not even the person that _you _know." Frustrated, Matt made a strangled sound that was somewhere between a groan and a sigh, hands going to his hand, fingers feathering in and pulling at his tussled red hair. "This is impossible, I don't know why I even bot--"

"I don't know," Mello murmured with a frown, ignoring Matt's shocked expression. Biting his lip in an age-old gesture of hesitance, he continued, "I . . . I think. . . maybe the explosion. . . Ugh, it screwed me up . . ."

"Well, yeah. Obviously. You lost part of you face and your hearing and your sight--"

"While that was a very uplifting recount of my excellent health, that isn't what I meant."

"Then. . . ?"

"I can't think. I'm losing my mind," he confessed quietly.

"Like, a brain injury?" Despite Mello's withering look, Matt continued, "Hey, I'm serious. Look, that was pretty intense trauma you took. It could've done more damage than we realize."

"No, I've had all the tests done, my brain is fine--or so _they _tell me," Mello added darkly. He'd never had any faith in doctors.

Matt chuckled a bit. "Mel, whatever brain injuries you have are far beyond the repair of any doctor--not even a shrink." At that, Matt's smirk faded and he frowned. The sight was rare, but powerful, the way Matt would stare at him, eyes trying to bleed some sort of sense into the crazy idiot he adored. "Ever think maybe that's the problem?"

"What, that I'm a fucking nutcase? Matt, I learned that _years _ago," Mello said tartly.

"You're not crazy," Matt sighed, exasperated. "You're just a Wammy Kid. But still. . ." Pausing a bit in apprehension, he decided to just spit it out: "Are you scared?" Matt asked in a soft voice.

"Of course," Mello answered instantly, shocking his companion. Without thinking about it, his hand crawled towards the rosary draped around his neck, fingers knotted anxiously in the beads. "I failed quite epically. I lost the Death Note, I lost all my Mafia men--not to mention my dignity, that's fucking shot. And now Kira has my name. I don't want to make a move because I'm terrified that either I'm going to end up dead or the same loser I've always been. Or--worst case scenario-both."

"Hey, that's my best friend you're talking smack about," Matt said, lightly punching Mello in the shoulder. _Some friend_, Mello thought coldly, but kept his opinions to himself. Eyeing the unusually quiet blonde, Matt moved a bit closer and murmured, "You know what I'm going to say. . ."

"I can't hide from Kira forever. I've started this mess and now I have to clean it up," Mello recited, feeling a bit like an alter boy again.

"And you know what I'm going to suggest . . ."

There was absolute silence before Mello, eyes narrowed, replied, "Yeah, I do. Been thinking it myself."

"You have to see Near," Matt said firmly, eyes trained on Mello's avoidant gaze. Hesitating at first, Matt reached over and slipped a finger underneath the blonde's chin, pivoting him so that he could meet those shifty teal eyes. "You have to meet him face-to-face--Er, face-to-half-face, anyways," he corrected with a self-satisfied smile.

Mello rolled his eyes. "Asshole," he muttered, tone strangely affectionate.

"I couldn't help myself," Matt said with a laugh before he was serious again. "Want me to come with?"

Mello eyes widened in horror at the thought. "No! God, no--Lord forgive me," he added, making Matt raise an eyebrow. "Near doesn't know that we're together--_working _together," he corrected swiftly, grimacing at his awkward phrasing. It was amazing--he was one of the most feared Mafia bosses in all of North America and he couldn't handle a little redheaded kid's crush on him? Insane. "I mean, I'm sure the little bastard has figured it out by now, but there's no need to confirm his suspicions. The less danger you're in, the better."

"Don't be stupid," Matt said, an odd smile on his full, pouty lips. "I knew what following you would mean and I did it anyways. It's not my life I'm worried about," he added, voice soft, tone not subtle.

Frowning at that, Mello replied, "I didn't drag you from Wammy's to get you killed--that's not your job---"

"And yet it's yours? Mello, I'm not going to just sit back and watch you die!"

"_Enough_," the former mobster snapped, fist clenching around the prayer beads and nearly snapping them. Carefully, he untangled his fingers and rested his hands in his lap. "Nobody is going to die, except Kira, and that's a promise."

"Right," Matt agreed, nodding in determination as he rose to his full height, making Mello feel small in comparison. Smaller, actually, given that his emotional fit had killed whatever falsely confident walls he had built up. "So, you're okay then?"

Mello shrugged. "Something like that, yeah." A wry smile twisted at his lips. "Get back to work, you lazy bastard."

Matt scoffed as he stomped out of the bathroom. "Pfft, _I'm _the bastard, you ungrateful douche bag?" He called out with a harsh bark of a laugh.

_You're not wrong_, Mello thought with bitter, aching sadness, the smile he had put on to comfort Matt falling from his lips. _I_ am _the bastard. The bastard that's going to get _you _killed. I'm so sorry, Matt--but. . . please don't hate me._

Maybe Mello was wrong or right or whichever--his thoughts were still too muddied for him to keep them from straying off into never-never-land. But one thing was certain--even if his brain didn't recognize it, his heart surely did

The issue that was gnawing at Mello was the realization that he was just as obsessed with Matt as he was with Near, though for two entirely different reasons. But the problem with that was that an obsession was overwhelming, all consuming. Having two at once was like trying to merge water and fire: utterly impossible. And one could only be destroyed in the crossfire.


	4. Control

[A/N: Omigod. So, the morning after I posted Chapter Two, I checked my inbox and expected it to be flooded with Facebook crap, as per usual. But no! It was all from --from YOU guys! And that put the widest smile on my face--I was literally dancing around my computer room, aha! So, thank you to everyone who has read, reviewed, favorited, and simply enjoyed my little story. I am so very flattered and extremely grateful. My appreciation is eternal. Also, I know this chapter is LONG overdue and for that, I apologize! Hopefully, it was worth the wait. . ?

But onto the story itself . . .

Ah, Plot! Finally, you've arrived! It's been far too long since we last met! xD Seriously guys, I know mostly it's just been angsty monologues and flashbacks and bloody Mello-ness (not that that in and of itself isn't awesome, but still….) and I _so _appreciate you sticking with me through these first few chapters while the story gains its footing. But, this chapter and the next will follow the storyline fairly directly, so be prepared. I will have my own little twists now and then, which hopefully you'll enjoy. And not be upset and/or bored with! -nervous grin- And after that….? Well, we'll just have to see what happens with our love-birds, mwahaha. Enjoy! Also, since the manga and anime start to vary at this point, I'm going to be splicing certain things. Just so you know. ]

[Disclaimer : Death Note and all it's plots, characters, concepts, images, etc. belong to Takeshi Obata, Tsugmi Ohba, MADHOUSE, Viz, etc. It is does not belong to me and I, in no way, benefit financially from the franchise. However, I do take credit for any original characters and concepts. Please don't steal!]

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"All my beautiful lovely safe world blew itself up here with a great gust of high explosive love."

**~ Tender is the Night by F. Scott Fitzgerald **

**III**

**Control**

It never ceased to amaze Mello how Matt managed to miss the most important events in their lives. Their world was quite literally collapsing to pieces around them and yet Matt was asleep. Asleep. Somewhere out there, Kira, the world's most brutal murderer, the Judas who slew L, was lurking--_killing_, even--and Matt was unconscious. Unbelievable.

Mello himself had barely slept at all since his days at Wammy's. As a child, he had been too driven by his studies and too plagued by nightmares to bother making the passage into dreamland. As he got older, he simply stopped trying, learning to use and burn the energy provided by caffeine and raw passion. That and he was far too paranoid to close his eyes for even a second while surrounded by the potential enemies of the Mafia. Of course, now he didn't have much choice _but _to sleep. Years of pushing himself beyond all concepts of the human physiology were quickly catching up with him. And, coupled with not only his injuries but his painkillers and Nurse Matt's deviously stubborn healthcare, he was helpless. The drugs had all but wiped out the usual trauma of his resting periods, thank God, but he didn't much care for the bizarre, Alice-in-Wasted-land dreams he often found himself floating in late at night. In fact, the only thing that kept him going was the comfort that eventually he'd be strong enough to cope with the pain of both his emotional and physical wounds. That and the positively delightful idea of paying Matt back for the gallons of venomous peroxide the redhead had poured on him.

Smirking at that thought, Mello watched the careful rising and falling of Matt's striped chest from his position at his bedroom's doorframe. The bleached-blue glow of his many computer screens and the water-colored hues of sunset pouring in from the windows played along the pale skin of Matt's face. Goggles askew, lips parted slightly, lanky body curled in a protective coddled state, it would be disturbingly easy to kill Matt. Mello could do just about anything and, given the depth with which Matt slept, he would never know. That scared the hell out of Mello.

Despite the war wounds he carried from his days in the Mafia, it would be absolutely impossible for the blonde to harm Matt. He couldn't even picture such a thing in his head, nor could he understand how anybody else could consider the idea. Matt was an innocent, _the _innocent when compared to his dirty companion. He was harmless, full of nothing but provocative sarcasm, seemingly endless compassion, and the kind of devotion the people would die for--or from. Matt was perhaps the perfect combination in a person, though Mello was obviously biased given his affection for the subject in question: brilliant without being showy, laid-back without being careless, and madly in love without being a psychotic stalking bitch.

Yes, Mello had said the words--or, thought them, at least. After years of topic switching and awkward pauses and blatant lies, the truth had finally shown her face--and to Mello, it was ugly.

It wasn't the love itself that made him more than a bit sick. No, that would be impossible--how could anyone hate love? It wasn't just a paradox, it was impossible. And it wasn't even the religious part of him that squirmed at that idea of two men together--no, those days, days of his adolescence when he had wanted Matt so badly he literally slept in the church of Wammy's House to make the urges cease, were far gone. After all, it would be a bit too late to panic at the beast with two backs, now wouldn't it? Blood, sweat, and semen had been shed between them and such a bond wasn't allowed to be forgotten. Perhaps it was far too late to panic at the consequences of their childhood romance, but Mello simply couldn't help it. It was just one more thing on the list of things that give him shivers.

He had long ago accepted the fact that, in a few scant years, he had gone from man to monster, but maybe he had over-estimated himself. Maybe Mello wasn't strong enough to be either. The noose was tightening around them, both personally and professionally, and all he could do was waver in uncertainty.

Things had turned out so differently from how he had expected, as life had a bad habit of doing. Somehow, he thought this wouldn't be hard. Facing Kira, facing Near, facing Matt, facing himself--piece of cake, he thought. Combine a few of those seemingly fearful elements, shake 'em together, and--BAM!--there was your solution. Simple. Effortless. Clean. Now, that immaculate overview was laughable--as if the black-hearted, black-humored universe would _ever _make life so easily for their broken-down prince. No. Of _course _not. Kira and Near were as unreachable as ever, while Matt and himself were much too available. All the right things at exactly the wrong time. And what had he done to rectify this situation? Nothing. He had done just what Matt had accused him of: brooding and slacking off, attempting to give the cold shoulder towards a world that had forgotten him years ago.

Even though Mello had been nothing more than a bloody sac of uselessness, his other wasn't. Matt was trying, he really was, but he had no desire to catch Kira. Like Mello, he was in this game for personal reasons, but since his "personal reasons" were rotting away in the next room and their goal was as untouchable as always, he was considerably distracted. Not too mention that Matt had always been the more sensitive of the two, meaning he felt whatever was hiding in Mello's heart two-fold. At the moment, they were a disaster--it was a wonder they weren't dead yet.

Grimacing at that thought, Mello realized how very right Matt was: while he was just as intelligent on his own, he simply couldn't fill Mello's place. He couldn't shoulder the burden that the blonde had created for them, nor could he capture Kira or defeat Near. It wasn't for lack of ability, it was lack of want. You could lead a Wammy Kid to glory, but you couldn't make him seek it, Mello had learned that as a child when he spent hours studying while Matt languidly watched his life float on by. And maybe that was part of why he was so driven, to achieve a life for Matt as well as his own. To try and pry the eyes behind the goggles open and make them see the beauty in the break-down of life. Mello had succeeded on that front, just not in the way he had anticipated.

All that taken into consideration, it was clear what needed to happen. The intermission was over and the curtains were going to rise once again whether Mello liked it or not. The players were assembled, the plot had been carved, and the world was watching as Act Two and World War III was dawning. He could either shuffle on stage like the meek little insect he had been made out to be or he could stay in character and return with guns blazing and attitude burning.

Was there even a choice?

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_Mail Jeevas only faintly remembered his first day at the Wammy's House for Gifted Children--or, more appropriately, "Wammy's Hellish Training Ground For Tiny Soldiers of (Not Quite) Justice." _

_His opinion of the giant red-brick mansion and spindly metal gates was limited. In fact, Mail was more or less devoid of a point of view. Not even his beloved games or the drunken mother whose flying vodka bottles had all but killed him were enough to provoke his passion. So, when a kind, elderly man in an expensive pressed suit had approached the soot-covered, fiery-haired orphan with the promise to make him a life, Mail was decidedly skeptical. But he was also starved and freezing in Paris' damp city streets, so he followed in a state of numb silence. He hadn't even bothered to consider all the things that could happen to him if he entered this man's custody, for he simply didn't care. Mail had never cared, not even about himself._

_The suit had turned out to be a man named Watari--Quillsh Wammy himself. Apparently, there was a certain amount of pride one was supposed to have at having the orphanage's patron saint pick you himself, but Mail didn't recognize the honor. Prestige had never been much of consideration to the child--after all, Cosette Jeevas was an acclaimed actress, but that hadn't stopped her from hiding and beating the son she hated. So, when walking through the huge, overpowering doors of his new home, trailing awkwardly by Watari's side, he had done everything possible to hide his skinny, filthy frame from the other children's prying eyes. And Watari, empathetic down to his very bones, had smiled down at the frightened child and guided him to his room. He was supposed to take the boy to Roger first thing, as Mail would later find out, but there was something much more important to Watari. _

_After walking the winding, stiffly carpeted building for what felt like an eternity, they had stopped in front a room, a bedroom. The quiet inside this room was striking, given that every other was filled with laughter, swearing, and jeering. No, behind this door was nothing more than the soft turning of pages. It was at once foreboding and intriguing. Mail peered up at his caretaker with curious jade eyes. But Watari said nothing, a smile still touching his pale wrinkled lips as he turned the knob._

_It was the most amazing thing Mail's eyes had ever seen--and would ever see, of this he was certain. The impact was indescribable. Clouds clearing away, aurora breaking on the horizon and piercing the grim, dark hole of an empty eternity he had carried within himself. For the first time, Mail tasted of desire, of wanting--of true life._

_Settled on a pin-neat bed was a child, not much older than Mail's ten years, the boy suspected. Still, he seemed infinitely older, wiser, like a man trapped in a child's thin body. A golden curtain of hair obscured his face a bit, but Mail didn't need to see to know what he was looking at: an angel, his own personal savior cloaked in heavy fabric of black. _

"_Greetings, Mello," Watari murmured, bespectacled gaze eyeing the child as his smile broadened._

_The boy snapped up at that, a wide grin on his lips and fever in his ocean-colored eyes. Mail gasped a little at just how marvelous this creature was._

"_Watari!" Mello cried out, setting down the book he had previously been studying so intently. "You're back!"_

"_Just for a little while, unfortunately--L is working on a case in Paris and I must return to him as soon as possible. In fact, I shall be leaving for the airport in an hour."_

"_Oh," Mello murmured, smile dropping at that. Then, he caught sight of Mail. Eyes narrowing at the child, Mail couldn't help but quiver at that harsh glare. "What's that?" The blonde inquired coldly. In reaction, Mail shifted behind Watari, peeking around the man's legs as Mello's stare held._

_Laughing, Watari gently disengaged the shivering child and pushed him forward. "He's a boy, Mello. I'm sure you know of them, given that you are one. And he's also your new roommate" _

_A thrill of fear and pleasure jumped up Mail's spine as he looked at the ghastly, horrified look on that lovely face. It was clear he wasn't wanted, as always._

"_What?!" Mello all but yelled, his tone demanding. "Watari, I can't have a roommate--"_

"_Why not? Is someone using that?" The old man asked, pointing a shriveled finger towards the spare bed across the room._

"_Well, no, " the infuriated blonde admitted._

"_Perfect," Watari said before turning to the boy at his side. "If you'll excuse me, I must meet with Roger to smooth the details of your stay here. I have suspicions that you two will be fast friends," he added, giving Mello a stern look before slipping out the door, closing it gently behind him._

_Both boys stared at the door rather longingly for a moment before turning to face each other. Mail said nothing and for a few moments, there was silence. Then, Mello broke it with, "You're not welcome here,"_

_It was a rather painful beginning to a beautiful friendship._

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Nighttime had cast its shadow, moonlit glow over the room as Matt opened his eyes. Eyelids still hanging heavy from sleep, it took a moment for the pieces to click together in his muddled brain. The second they did, he was upright and typing at the laptops with mad speed. Hopefully, Mello hadn't noticed that his hacker had fallen asleep on the job.

After bringing everything back to speed, Matt leaned back and breathed a sigh of relief. He seemed to be spared. Flicking his lighter, he lit his cigarette aflame and allowed himself the luxury of taking a smoky drag. It was only after a few puffs did he notice that Mello wasn't barking at him to put the damnable thing out. Eyebrows knotting in surprise, he called out, "Mel? You in there?"

The blonde's bedroom door was closed, as always, but was unusually quiet. Flirting a bit with asking permission for entrance, Matt instead took the knob in his gloved palm and threw the door open.

Not terribly surprising, the room was empty. The bed was perfectly made, the curtains were open, and the books, Mello's beloved books, were piled on his desk. Nothing out of the ordinary. But, there was something that caught Matt's attention: a note, plain white paper with faint cursive writing printed on it. The first word was, "Near." And the second, "Thanks."

At that, Matt let out a rather hysterical bout of laughter, eyeing the spectacle with a bit of smug satisfaction. "Bastard," he murmured, rolling his eyes. "You never change."

_You can never just _say _what you _mean _. . . _

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_The resulting weeks for Mail were awkward at best. Between dodging verbal barbs and bullets from his unwilling roommate and running from the children stalking the new genius on the block, Mail's new life was increasingly more difficult then he had thought it would be. The testing didn't do much for him, either. Spending much of his life hiding his intelligence, Mail was still adjusting to the concept of "academic achievement." And, his high scores did not help his situation with his peers. While most seemed to admire his newfound glory, Mello's reaction was, as always, snide and unfriendly. "Don't think you can ever beat me--I'd kill you first," the blonde warned before turning back to his studies, leaving Mail drowning in a silent mix of disappointment, fear, and loneliness._

_All he wanted was for Mello to be nice to him, to maybe even like him a little. All he wanted was to be friends with Mello. He had no desire to trump the blonde's perfect standing in the House, nor did he want this "L title" all the children was always going on about. Such things were, as always, meaningless to him. That wasn't success to him, so he was perfectly content to play second fiddle to Mello's brilliance._

_If only there was a way for Mail to convey this to the blonde, but frankly, he was too intimidated to open his mouth. And, given the flavor of competition and conspiracy that stuck to the walls of Wammy, it was doubtful Mello would take him seriously. So Mail kept his mouth shut and took the verbal beatings with a grain of salt and a shrugged shoulder--after all, at least they weren't physical beatings, a major improvement over his last home._

_A month after arriving at Wammy's House, Mail's situation had not improved much, remaining just as poorly as it had began. Mello was as furiously silent and sharply-toned as ever while Mail was all but forced to run from class to class to escape the throng of fans he seemed to have collected. It was a bitter irony: everyone seemed to want him except the one _he _wanted._

_One day, sick of Mello's rejections and cruelty, Mail did something he hadn't since joining Wammy's illustrious alum: he went outside. Granted, Mail hated being out in the open, vulnerable to the preying of humanity, but he did enjoy being with nature. And, the expansive, carefully coiffed garden in the backyard was too hard to pass up. Mello made no comment as his roommate, dragging along in jeans three sizes too big for him, quietly slunk out of their room. No, that was an overestimation: it wasn't _their _room, it was _Mello's_, a fact the blonde drove home morning, noon, and night--and as many times in between as he could manage. Sighing, Mail paced through Wammy's first floor before coming to the glass, French-style doors that led outside. Pushing them open, his bare feet scuffled along the sharp pavement of the patio before stepping into the garden itself._

_The grass was still damp from the thunderstorms that had plagued the country even more than normal and the wet blades tickled the skin of Mail's feet as he walked. The sights and smells were overwhelming, to the point where he could almost taste the colors and see the lurid scents. Hidden behind a towering oak, Mail was about to climb into a ditch by the stream when his heel caught his pant-leg and he fell, face-first, into the dusty embank below._

_Aching from the tumble, Mail was about to brush off the incident and climb back up when a stabbing pain in his leg held him still. It was then he realized, looking down at the twisted limb, that he had sprained his ankle. Meaning he was stuck there, with no one to find him since no one knew he had left and he was hidden in the worst place imaginable. And then, when he thought it couldn't get any worse, a crack of thunder boomed overhead and the heavens began to pour._

_Panic instantly consumed Mail. He had always been terrified of thunderstorms, ever since the incident when his mother decided to lock him out in one for sadistic kicks. A tree barely two feet from him had been struck and splintered into flaming pieces and he had been traumatized ever since._

_Trembling faintly from cold and fear, Mail almost didn't hear the calls over the sounds of the storm. Pivoting slightly, he peered up to see Mello, clothes and hair soaked and plastered to his body. Eyebrows drawn in concentration, he frowned when he caught sight of the ruffled red hair._

"_What are you doing out here?" He asked in a loud voice as he knelt beside the enclave._

"_I-I t-tripped and f-fell," Mail explained nervously, cheeks as flaming red as his hair._

"_Then get up and get inside, idiot. It's fucking pouring out here. That and Roger's pitching a fit and making me his little errand boy. Like it's _my _fucking responsibility to keep you in line," Mello muttered, voice thick with resentment._

"_S-sor--"_

"_Don't apologize. Just move," the blonde instructed coldly. _

"_I can't," Mail admitted, eyes on the mud he was laying in. "I h-hurt my ankle and I can't w-walk."_

_Mello sighed heavily in exasperation. "You're hopeless," he snapped as he grabbed Mail's hands, making him blush. Pulling him up, Mello swung the scrawny redhead over his shoulders. "Hold on," he said and Mail obeyed, locking his arms around his Mello's neck. Feeling Mello's unusually strong and defined muscles flex beneath his body, Mail felt strangely peaceful even as they were stranded in the pouring rain. Of course Mello chose that moment to chime in: "This doesn't mean I like you. I still hate you."_

_Even at those words, Mail still couldn't help but smile as Mello carried him inside. He knew the blonde didn't mean it. He didn't know how he had suddenly learned to tell the difference, but everything seemed clear now. Mello had saved him and maybe one day, Mail could repay the favor._

_After all, even angels could fall._

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It was really a wonder that someone did not call the cops. After all, Halle Lidner lived in a rather classy neighborhood, so one would think that the appearance of a leather-wearing, lock-picking blonde would be noted. Not that Mello was complaining, of course. A part of him would die a sad death if the day he finally regained himself was also the day the cops caught him. Scowling at the thought alone, he worked quickly, jimmying the handle on her apartment door and letting himself inside.

Entering the building had been easier than expected, he recalled as his teal eyes took in the darkened house. Truthfully, Mello had been counting on having to call on Matt to find a way to disable the building's security. Or break a window, if that wasn't possible. But the appearance of a little old lady had made his life significantly easier. With a smile, she had warmly welcomed him into the building, not seeming to have a second thought nor bothering to question his scar; probably thought it would be rude.

Times like these caused Mello's resolve to waver ever so slightly. Even if Kira was a murdering bastard, it would be a lie to say that things hadn't improved since the killer's appearance. People, good people who deserved no troubles in life, finally felt safe and happy with the world around him, so what right did a sinner have to pull it all away?

In an odd twist, his thoughts clamped full circle. That was it, wasn't it? He was a monster, a killer, a brutal and dangerous being. And yet, that woman had simply let him inside her home without a qualm. Goodness couldn't be forced through fear or fighting; a person had to _want _to live a righteous life to actually walk that path. Evil could be suppressed, but never fully erased. Men were corrupt as long as the sweet taste of forbidden fruit burned on their tongues and Kira was a fool to think he was a God, _the _God, who could resurrect their lost Eden. Kira wasn't saving people, he was simply blinding them, shielding them from how ugly this world could really be. And Kira hadn't defeated the Devil. If anything, he had made those demons stronger than ever before. Conflict brings out cunning and Mello was surely the Lucifer of the New World, not a fact the Catholic prided himself on but a fact nonetheless.

It would appear that Halle hadn't returned home, giving Mello time to snoop around her home. He wasn't particularly looking for information, but if any was found it would surely be appreciated. No, it was more like curiosity about what kind of person would contact someone such as himself.

Mello was of course hesitant at first to trust anything that came out of the woman's mouth. She was part of the SPK, meaning she was just another of Near's human tools. Already she was tainted. And yet, she was useful. Through Halle, Mello had gained quite a bit more knowledge of the team's workings, like their home-base and how many members they operated with, a number that had decreased significantly thanks to Mello's now-dead Mafia minions. Still, she was shifty. She claimed to cooperate with both of L's successors out of belief that the two working together was much more effective than one or the other. At that, the more emotional of the two boys almost smashed the phone instead of just hanging up, but Matt's pleas kept him on the line. So he listened to Halle Lidner and agreed to form a partnership, of sorts, taking Matt and himself from Winchester and flying into New York City. This was going to one _hell _of a family reunion, he thought with a wicked grin.

The jingle of keys pulled Mello from his reverie and he slid to the right of the door frame, pulling his gun out the moment Halle stepped inside. She placed a manicured nail over her lips, silencing him. That could only mean she was wired. Mello's suspicions were confirmed as pulled a tiny button from her jacket, giving her orders to Near through it. The sound of the white one's voice made Mello seethe, fists clenching slightly which was dangerous given that one hand was on his gun and the other on his chocolate, two of his most precious things. With a frown, Mello released the pressure on his trigger finger and drew his gun back. Not that it would really be any big loss if he shot Halle, but it would most certainly be inconvenient. He watched Halle walk to the bathroom and, with slight reluctance, followed her. Matt would fucking _flip _if he ever knew about this. . .

Despite himself, Mello was nothing if not a gentleman, turning his back on Halle as she undressed. Whether or not the woman appreciated his efforts was unknown. She didn't seem to mind if he saw her skin, but saying that she wanted him to would just be a facet of Mello's conceit.

Steam filled the tiny, pristine bathroom, making the leather stick to Mello's body in a rather uncomfortable fashion and his hair prickle along his skull. Nevertheless, he held his ground, back pressed against the linoleum as he waited for Halle to crack.

Finally she did. Her voice was a rasp above the rushing of water, "Near came to the conclusion that you would try to contact me, but I don't think he knew we had already met."

That Mello doubted. If Near was holding puzzle-pieces, no doubt he would put them together. "It's so like Near that think that way . . ." He muttered in irritation, taking a vicious snap off his chocolate.

Halle continued as if the other blonde hadn't spoken, "And you no longer have the notebook, so all you can threaten me with is _that gun_, right?" At this, Mello smirked slightly--if only Halle knew just how _good _he was with _this gun_. "You can't control me, and if you use the gun to kill me, it's only going to make it easier to track you down. I'm going to have to place cameras in all my rooms after this, excluding the bathroom. . ."

"Not my fault Near doesn't trust you," Mello replied.

"I'm not saying that it is," Halle murmured. "So, what will you do? Live in bathroom?" Before he answered, she added, "It's okay with me. I don't mind having you around."

Rolling his eyes, the gunman told her, "I have a place."

"I see. How unfortunate."

"Isn't it, though?" He muttered sarcastically.

"Near also thinks that the new L is Kira," Halle announced suddenly as she turned the water off with a damp pale hand.

That certainly threw the self-assured Mafioso. "_L_?!" He had been told that the "Second L" was Touta Matsuda, but that he was completely useless and just there to support the name of L. That made sense, given how incompetent this one was when compared to the real deal. But it was possible. After all, people could lie. And no doubt L would throw the Kira case if he was the "God" himself. It would certainly explain much more clearly why the Japanese were so willing to storm his base. The Death Note had been a factor, of course, but this sealed the deal. Besides, as much as he was loath to admit it, Mello knew that Near was rarely ever wrong, just like their idol. If this was Near's theory than Mello was not going to argue it without reason. And his belief his "Near is a dirty, cheating little cunt" mentality was surely not a valid reason.

"So, what are you going to do?" The woman questioned again as she pulled back the curtain.

Mello watched her through narrowed eyes. "Halle, whose side are you on?" He asked finally.

Heaving a small sigh of frustration, she ran a towel over her sodden fair locks. "I already told you a week ago, didn't I? I'm on nobody's side. You, Near, and I all want to capture Kira. We're after the same goal."

That's how it appeared, at least. The truth was that they were all after similar, but different objectives. Revenge was a motive for all. While Mello and Near were avenging their fallen leader, Halle was purifying the memory of some unknown victim. Just another body strewn along the graveyard as far as Mello was concerned. And there was of course the matter of L's title, a tug of war between his two successors that Halle clearly had no interest in sullying her hands with. But there was Mello's own personal crusade as well, his fight for his pride, and no one could or would win that for him.

When her companion said nothing, Halle resumed her interrogation. "Are you going to run away? If you do, I'm going to tell Near that you were hiding in my bathroom and that I met you. Or do you want to meet me later somewhere else?"

No, there would be no later, no more running away. Mello had run from his situation with Near for years while simultaneously chasing the boy's leads and frankly his feet were tired. He needed to finish this or at least bring about some sort of closure that would keep him from completely losing his mind. And it would all happen on this night. "Halle, go back to headquarters."

She shot him a perplexed glare. "But I have no reason to go back there now. . ."

Letting out a small snarl, Mello instantly thrust the gun into her face. "Then make one up," he snapped impatiently. "Go _back_."

Halle flinched away, glaring daggers at him. "Okay, fine. Just take that thing out of my face."

"That's what you get for letting strange men into your bathroom." A smug sort of smile graced his features as he slipped out of her bathroom.

_Showtime_.

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_Control. That's what it was about, what it always had been. The power and lust that came with _

_being the guiding hand. And the fear of being oppressed by it._

_Mello never once had control. As a child, such a thing hadn't bothered him. In fact, he almost delighted in his lack of freedom. The young Mihael Keehl had never wanted or needed, nor had he ever struggled for himself. He was pampered, sheltered, never even _conceiving _the pain of his fellow man. That lesson would be driven home soon enough._

_He had watched them die. _Let _them die. Suddenly, the family that had always coddled him was gone. The pillars of his former self pulled away, Mihael was left to drown in a sea of confusion and loneliness, crippled instead enabled by his brilliant mind. Meandering through foster homes, his "families" had torn him to pieces, stripping the boy of himself. So paralyzed was Mihael that he couldn't even speak. And then there was the House, _his _House. _

_Watari had found him, saved Mihael's wretched life and bequeathed him a new one. _Mello_. The child Keehl was dead, forgotten and never to be raised again. _Mello _was strong. _Mello _refused to be weak. He _needed _to be the best and would accept nothing less of his new self. _No one _could beat _him_. And at first, no one did. For his first few years at Wammy's, Mello reigned supreme, his shining presence forever looming over the other children. It wasn't until the boy turned ten that he was kicked off his throne. _

Near_. The boy genius who pulled the rug out from the blonde's bare feet. And just like that, Mihael was once again spinning out of control._

_Maybe that was part of why he had allowed himself Mail Jeevas. Even if Mello was no longer the king of the House, smothered beneath Near's icy presence of snow and darkness, he was certainly no fool. He caught those fleeting stares of emerald eyes, filled with a mix of fearful and adoring intoxication. He could feel the creeping, stalking existence of the scrawny wunderkind at his back, knew who is was before even glancing behind him. It was annoying, of course. Given all that Near had put him through, it didn't seem like too big a request to have a room all too himself, one place of solace where no one could touch him without his consent. But no. Instead Watari, with his usual empathetic, enigmatic smile, had tossed Mail into the clutches of the wolf of Wammy's House. Still, the boy could have his uses. . . _

_Mello could control him. _Own _him. It would be the one thing that no one could wrest away from him. Not Near. Not Roger. Not even God himself. Mail Jeevas would belong to him and _nothing _could change that. So, with that thought in the web of his calculating brain, Mello went in for the kill. Of sorts. That was the plan, but when did the world ever move according to its people's plots?_

_They were both soaking wet and full of skinny bones rattling with cold. Mail had indeed sprained his ankle, fairly bad in fact, and had trouble getting around. Mello, pinned under Roger's withering glare, had agreed to assist the boy in getting around the orphanage. An hour was spent in the infirmary plastering Mail's leg before Mello carried him back to the room, dumping the boy on his bed without much consideration. The painkillers in the redhead's blood knocked him out rather quickly, leaving Mello to watch him, maybe even watch _over _him, subconsciously. So he watched. And listened. And learned. And waited. _

_A week later, armed with a collection of mental notes, Mello approached his potential prey. Mail was hidden, as always--a blur of stripes lurking in dim, dusty corners of the mansion. But the quiet, metallic chorus of his games gave away his location and Mello was able to pick him out easily. A tangible silence fell over the rest of the residents as they watched their most volatile creature go to war. Stalking through the library, bare feet clicking to the polished wooden floors, Mello found the boy, pale face and goggled-eyes obscured by a mop of bright red hair._

"_Hey," he muttered, eyes narrowing slightly when he received no response. "Hey," he repeated, scowling at the silence. Mello wasn't the type of person one could ignore easily, something the boy prided himself on. And he would be damned if this boy undid him. With a snarl, he grabbed the Gameboy from Mail's tightened fingers and tore out the batteries, letting the dissected system fall to the ground with a clatter. "I'm talking to you!"_

_At that, Mail peered up at him, eyes wide with a naked, human look to them that made Mello shiver. "Oh," he murmured, chewed up lips puckering around the soft utterance. "Sorry. Uhm, hi." He paused for a moment before asking, "Why?" _

"_What?" The blonde demanded._

"_Why are you talking to me?" Mail asked, visibly puzzled. It was reasonable, given that in the last month or so Mello had done nothing but sneer and snap at his redhead. But the boy had a reason this time, a question he needed an answer to. It shouldn't have bothered him, but it did, and he just needed to know _why_. _

_Mello snorted. "Because I fucking feel like it, that's why," he explained as he settled next to Mail on the floor, flopping down in a sea of heaving black cloth. "That and there's something I want you to tell me," he admitted, reaching up to tuck a few strands of soft golden hair behind his ears. It was then he noticed the quiet and the prying eyes. Glaring, he barked, "Do you have a problem?!" Nervously, the children turned away and Mello smirked, satisfied, before turning his attention back to Mail, noting the small upturn of the boy's own lips. Seeing Mello stare at him, the redhead cleared his expression and made himself look as blank as possible, a change that made Mello frown slightly, though he didn't know why. Clearing his throat, he voiced the thought that had been picking at him for almost a week: "Why did you refuse to be L's heir?"_

_It was a scandal that had spread through Wammy's House like a cancer, that a boy with no "name" had risen high enough to be offered a shot at their prize. And had turned it down. Mello couldn't fathom why the boy would make such a choice, since his own mind was so polluted with drive, but he wanted to. None of the other children had ever interested him before. Not even Near, really. Near was a means to an end, a goal to meet and break in order to achieve victory. If there was even an actual person, lurking beneath those empty black eyes, he held no fascination for Mello. But this boy, Mail Jeevas, _did _and that was equal parts chilling and exciting. _

_Mail studied Mello's face for a long moment in silent thought, making the blonde fidget and flush uncomfortably. Finally he answered, tone honest and clear, "Because I didn't want it."_

_Mello gaped. "_WHAT_?!" He exclaimed, practically screaming and making Mail flinch. He leaned closer to the boy, staring. It seemed impossible. Claiming L's title was the goal of all Wammy Children. It was what they lived and died, breathed and bled for. And this boy didn't want that? _Impossible_. But his clarity did make Mello a bit unsettled. The House was not known as a place that promoted the openness in its recruits. Perhaps Mail hadn't been there long enough, Mello reasoned. Yes, that would be it. Soon enough he would become one of them and the blonde would crush him just as he did all the rest. _

"_Why do you even care?" Mail asked, his tone biting. "I was under the impression you weren't a very big fan of competition," he added, a hint of sarcasm coloring his voice. _

_That shocked Mello, since no one had ever dared go against him before. "It doesn't matter who gets in my way, I'll beat them all," he growled._

"_How nice," Mail replied coolly. Up until this point, he had been nothing but soft-spoken but it was clear that the blonde was pushing the shy gamer's limits. He reached out for his broken console, but Mello smacked it away, making the plastic clatter rather loudly as it slid across the floor. _

_Clutching the thin wrist in his own grip, he hissed, "You have no right to talk to me like that, you filthy little brat!"_

_Mail tore out of his grasp, cheeks flushed angrily as he shoved his face towards Mello's. "And you have no right to be a complete dick and treat me like trash, but that never fucking stopped you! Looks like we're even, Blondie!" _

_Within minutes, they were rolling around on the floor, bodies sliding on the slippery wood as they clawed and bit at one another. Eventually Roger had to break them up, shocked to deliver a stern warning to both boys instead of just the usual instigator. The icing on the cake was that since he had further injured the boy's already beaten leg, Mello was put on full-time gimp duty. With a scowl, he led Mail back to their room, muttering curses beneath his breath the entire time. _

_Though he'd never admit it, Mello actually felt a bit bad for hitting the redhead. An apology would never leave his lips, but it would lay in his heart. Once, he had accidentally walked in on Mail changing and saw his skinny frame laced with scars. He never said anything, though curiosity had certainly tempted him. It wasn't so much common courtesy that held his tongue, since Mello wasn't exactly the most polite of people. No, it was the poisonous fear he'd gleaned in those grass-green eyes that made him swallow his words. Because, as tough as he was, Mello was sure he was strong enough to handle even _that_. Sure, his parents had been murdered and he had watched their demise, but they had loved him. Even in his most painful of moments, Mello always had that. But what did Mail Jeevas have? That thought pissed him off to no end, the idea that there was _any _person who was better than him in _any _way. But it also made him even more enmeshed in mystery building around the newest of Wammy's Children. . . _

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Their tragic affair was reborn in exactly the same way it had died--with a text message.

After that last night together, Matt had sworn to himself that he would never let his love back into his thoughts--and certainly not back into his heart. It would be easy. It _had _to be. If Mello could leave him behind with barely a goodbye, then surely Matt could return the favor. He would never think of Mello, never see Mello's angelic face painted on his eyelids whenever he dreamed, never cry at the smell of chocolate, or let his eyes wander longingly over the bed across from his own. Instead, Matt would live his entire life in Mello's honor--or, maybe more appropriately, as vengeance to his own fallen angel. It would be as if Mello had never existed, since the only living creature to ever care for him would never even consider him again. It was a perfect plan.

For a genius, Matt was surprisingly thick.

Perhaps he was just too human, a flaw that no amount of brain cells and book-learning could erase. Even the clearest of eyes blurred when turned to matters of the heart, especially when looking into one's own heart. Still, as he sat in their moonlit apartment as he relived his memories and drowned them in cigarette smoke, Matt couldn't help but feel stupid. To think that such a plan could ever work. Mello had made him and had also murdered him. But somehow, the pieces had managed to function.

It wasn't easy. For a while, Matt was, for all intents and purposes, dead. Everyone had tried to fix him. It was as if the tiny redheaded child was a porcelain doll, cracks trailing rivers down it's beautiful fragile face. Like something out of a fairytale, only it felt more like a nightmare to Matt. The comparison, however, was valid: no salve or solution at hand while somewhere in the big bad world lurked a handsome bastard holding the key to Matt's love and life hostage.

For a while, shock dulled the pain, leaving Matt in a cloud of static-like confusion. It took about a month for the heaving cloud of sorrow to bear down on him. And once it did, it refused to let go.

Even Roger, no fan of children and not much fond of Matt, had found the experience painful. There were days when he would walk into the boy's room expecting to find his corpse. A romantic would think that he would have died of a broken heart, but the truth was much more grim. Matt wouldn't eat. He wouldn't sleep. He never left their room and never allowed the maid to take the filthy sheets still stained with the knowledge of their love-making, a perverse and morose obsession that Roger wisely did not question. The headmaster knew they were in true danger when, after yet another plea to coax Matt from his room, the boy pitched one of his consoles at him. Matt had never been violent before and his temper was frightening, certainly. But what was most unsettling was that, as plastic and glass cracked on the floor, the sight glistened in Matt's lifeless forest eyes. Before, the realm of pixels and fantasy had been Matt's home and yet he couldn't bring himself to care. The pain of the real world was too sharp, too bright to be ignored. And that's when it finally broke loose. For the first time, it really settled in Matt's mind: _Mello was gone_.

Matt had cried for three days straight after that, sobbing so violently he vomited more than once. It was like a detox, all of Mello's influence bleeding out of him in a torrent of bitter tears and rotted memories. To an outside prospective, it appeared to be a break-through; Matt could once again behave as a normal human without the reinforcement of others. The truth was that the redhead was simply a very good actor, a trait he had, ironically, picked up from the source of all his woes. Over the four years they had been separated for, Matt's plan was never once successful : he _never _forgot Mello and the pain of his loss _never _lessened. But he managed. Somehow, he survived the storm. Broken and bruised, but alive. Eventually, the searing in his chest dulled to a raw ache, constant yet manageable. His lust for his games and nicotine slowly returned and Matt seemed to be himself again after years of wavering on the edge.

Naturally, it was at this point of relative peace that Mello decided to make his grand re-appearance.

To be fair, it wasn't quite Mello's fault. The real criminal was Matt's still finely-bred loyalty to the blonde. But still, it was easier for Matt to blame Mello than to turn the fault onto himself. Maybe they were both fucked royally; Matt really didn't know anymore.

The day had started out fairly safe and oddly normal, a tell-tale sign of danger when one resides in a place like Wammy's House. Matt almost didn't pick up the scent of trouble in time. Now that he was the oldest child in the orphanage, Roger had tasked him with more chores than he could handle and certainly plenty that he didn't care for. Jammed under a desk and covered in dust-bunnies, Matt was tearing angrily at extension cords in the Computer Lab when a pair of Japanese men attracted his attention. Moving quickly and quietly, he made his way to Roger's door and stealthy eavesdropped on the conversation. Despite the fact that the topic was Kira, most of it was of little interest to the gamer. After all, L and all the trappings the title entailed had never been one of his favorite things. That was part of why Mello had always liked him so much: because he didn't care. And Mello _always _cared. Pushing away the nagging thoughts of his former friend, Matt pressed his ear against the door and tried to focus on their conversation, a task that became much easier once Mello's name was dropped.

For the first time in years, Matt felt sick. A cold sweat made its way down his skin, shivers trembling beneath his flesh. Listening to the blonde's exploits, the hacker felt on the edge of collapse. Gloved fingertips clung desperately to the wall for support, but naturally found none. He felt like he was going to faint. Or retch. Or die. Or all of the above. Swallowing thickly at the sour pulse in his throat, Matt forced himself to listen.

What he heard tore him in half. A slice of him felt fear and certainly revulsion at all the suffering and sins Mello had committed, convincing him that the person he had loved was dead. But then there was his heart, the heart that had always adored Mello despite reason and rationale. Mello had left him, but still the redhead felt loyal to him. It was a stupid but certainly not a fragile connection between them. So Matt made a choice.

Twenty minutes of hacking had earned Matt the phone number of LA's most infamous mob boss. It took twice that time for the lesser criminal to decide exactly what to do with it. He feared that hearing Mello's voice would rip him apart all over again and no one, Matt included, had to time or patience to re-mend him. The desire to risk all that pain for just a drop of pleasure was both sickening and intoxicating and was not something Matt was willing to tamper with. And that was how the text message had come about, simple, yet precise_: Japanese Taskforce snooping WH. Watch your back_. There was no response, not at first, which didn't surprise Matt. What did surprise him was the "get off your ass and save mine" call that Mello made when the gamer was, as fate would have it, doing business in LA. And Matt had.

Good or bad, right or wrong, like it or not, Mail Jeevas was thoroughly and often times painfully owned by his paramour. That should have bothered Matt. But instead, it actually felt kind of nice, further proving the theory that the children of Wammy's House were in no way normal.

Somehow, in the span of two hours since he presumed Mello had left, Matt had managed to burn through a full pack of Marlboro Lights. The dark living room reeked of cigarettes and the air was filmy with smoke. Mello would be ripshit when he got home--but at least he would be there, Matt reminded himself with a faint smile.

It was indicative of how bizarre their relationship truly was that Matt was actually relived by the sound of Mello slamming the door to their apartment and the bloodthirsty sneer that curved the blonde's lips.

When they found each other again for that first time, that night when Mello had all but died in his redhead's arms, Matt believed everything had changed Mello was stained with blood, both visible on his face and unseen on his hands. He was a tainted monster, killing the angel that had lived in Matt's heart and memories. But the more Matt acquainted himself with his former friend, the more he realized that, fundamentally, he hadn't changed at all.

The fire that had always burned in the blonde's slim chest still remained. Perhaps, bolstered by crime and passion, it had festered and turned outward on its host; the scar was perhaps the most ironic wound God could have ever dreamt up. But, somehow, it hadn't faded; even in Mello's most lifeless hours, it flickered undefeated, like the sluggish ebb and flow of his heart. And now, like a phoenix from his own ashes, a beaten yet breathing man stood before Matt, both a shall of what he was and a memorial of all he could have been. In this moment, Matt had never loved him more, for Mello was perfectly imperfect. For the first time in years, he was Mihael.

Naturally _Mihael _picked the _next _moment to begin his rage

"_That fucking Near_!" He snarled, voice roaring against the walls as his features twisted in disgust. It was like staring into the face of Medusa and just as the legend predicted, Matt was transfixed. So beautiful and yet so horrifying. So strong and yet so fragile. So determined and yet _so _conflicted. That was Mello's problem--he was everything and all those characteristics brewed a mess of paradoxes and lies. And yet, Matt adored him.

"Welcome home," the gamer replies with a fond smile, setting down the cigarette he had been poised to light. The man un question said nothing, merely piercing Matt with a glare before shrugging off that awful jacket that Matt hated and Mello always wore. Sighing, the hacker caved. "What happened?"

"_Everything_!" Came the screeched reply.

"Sounds terrible," Matt muttered sarcastically.

Cerulean eyes shot daggers. "That isn't funny."

"Never tried to be."

Mello was temporarily silent before huffing in irritation and continuing his snowflake-induced ranting to his bedroom. Matt stared after him for a moment, before sighing and placing his frozen DS on the coffee table, following behind Mello. Just as he always did.

Heat crept along Matt's neck and flushed his cheeks as he stepped into the master bed. It felt awkward and frightening and exhilarating to be in this setting with Mello once again. Had he truly _never _entered this room before?

Still cursing to himself in flutters beneath his breath, Mello stripped off his vest, causing Matt to make a surprised but thankfully muffled squeak. Though Matt had never really minded before, the non-established boundaries of their relationship (or whatever the hell they had between them) suddenly felt like a weight pressing down on his chest. He knew that Mello would never discuss it without prompt, since the former mob boss had placed Matt and all his emotional baggage in the void in his mind reserved for unimportant personal nonsense. But Matt, to afraid and desperate for the answer, would hold his tongue. Denial, fear, and secret affection--It had become the trademark dance of their relationship.

Clearing his throat in an attempt to clear his mind, Matt took a breath before asking, "Did Near give you anything useful?"

"It's _Near_," his cohort replied with a snort. "He _always _knows something."

"And?"

"And _what_??"

"What did he tell you?" Matt questioned, tone thick with uncharacteristic frustration.

Mello sighed. "It was more of what _I _told _him_." After a pause, he added, "Near know knows everything I've learned about the Death Note. I'm pretty sure he was aware of most of it, but the Shinigami business was brand new."

"Did he believe you?"

"Yeah. Given the situation, it would have been more illogical _not _to."

"Makes sense," Matt agreed with a nod. Catching a glint of stone-walling in the teal gaze shifting from his own, Matt's own green globes narrowed in suspicion. "What else?"

"The fake rule," Mello admitted.

"What?!" The redhead exclaimed, eyes widening and eyebrows raising in surprise.

"I didn't tell him _what _the rule was, just that it existed. Though I have no doubts he'll figure it out," he added thoughtfully. With Matt still gaping at him, he frown and explained, "Right now, Near has far more clout than I do; without the Mafia's resources and _with _my name in the hands of the Taskforce, my moves need to be few and far between. _Each one _needs to count." Pausing, he continued, "Even though the Taskforce doesn't entirely trust Near--most likely due to the Second L's influence--they'll still be willing to work with him to catch the bastard who killed their chief."

"You?" Matt suggested coolly.

Mello glared at him, arms crossing over his bare chest. "_Kira_, you asshole," he growled before adding, "Near has more tricks than I could ever even dream of. He'll get what we need."

"So you're going to use him?"

"I'm just returning the favor," he replied, a twinkle of both malice and mischief that Matt recognized even after all this time. And, strangely enough, it was welcome.

A thought occurred to Matt belatedly. "Wait, what does the Second L have to do with this? He's completely useless."

"Actually, he's Kira," the blonde answered flatly.

Bespectacled eyes widened. "For serious?"

Mello nodded, face grave. "Near's theory is that the Second L is really the First Kira."

After a moment, Matt replied, "It would certainly explain why there's been no recent progress in capturing Kira."

"My thoughts exactly."

"What about the Taskforce?"

"Personally, I think they're clean. Kira isn't controlling them with the Death Note; according to the rules, he couldn't stave off their deaths for such a long period of time. And the idea of new members just seems really unlikely. I have no doubts that the Second L AKA Kira is manipulating him, but they probably don't know it. Near thinks so too and he'll probably make a move sometime shortly, something to turn the Taskforce's suspicion towards the 'new L.' And then we'll move from there."

"And until then? We just wait around on our asses?" Truth be told, Matt didn't give a flying fuck about the Kira case; he was content to let L rot, Near win, and Kira take over the world. But then there was Mello. Mello, who seemed to live his life for the sole purpose of being a complication. If it wasn't for Mello, Matt _would _sit on his ass and do nothing. Today was the first time in too long of a time that Mello had seemed a semblance of his old self--and Matt was determined to keep it alive.

"Of course not," the man in question scoffed. "I have a plan. All we have to do is wait."

"Sounds vague and boring; I'm so excited my eyes are melting in their sockets."

"I warned you about those damn games," Mello replied in his typical arrogant, annoyed tone.

Matt rolled his still fully-functioning eyes. "It was a joke, not an ocular emergency."

The man in black smirked. "Ha-ha." It was then something slim and filmy fluttered from the pocket of Mello's leather hip. Curiously, Matt walked over and plucked it from the floor. What he saw shocked him--quiet literally. A sharp snap of heat and electricity wormed its way into Matt's chest and he sucked in a shuddered breath.

Etched upon the slick paper, weathered from age, was the face that had saved Matt's life and almost ended it years later. A menagerie of silver and gold and the ocean's ice swirled together to compose the face of the young Mello. Grinning with a mix of innocence and brutality, carefully crafted from a lifetime at Wammy's Hell House, his eyes glittered with the fierce passion of both a boy and a man. Though it was almost as far gone as the child himself, that glint still clung to Mello's modern-day visage. Running his thumb over the lines of the photograph's smile, Matt's own lips curved up.

"I almost forgot how adorably insane you were," he commented dryly, eying Mello. A haunted look had claimed the blonde's eyes and Matt reluctantly slid the picture into grasping leather fingers. Before Mello snatched the item away, the hacker caught sight of the curvy letters on the back. _Dear Mello, _he thought_. Near. . .what were you thinking? What _do _you think? Of Mello? Of Mello?_

In seconds, Mello had shredded the remnants of the years passed before taking the cheap plastic lighter hanging limply in Matt's hand. Piece by piece, the blonde lit the fragments, burning himself away until they were nothing more than ashes on the plush white carpet. . .

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_The storms had continued through the week and eventually even the mansion fell victim to the hard rains and piercing winds. That night, the electricity shut and their world was plunged into darkness. Still, the children got by; Mello read Freud by candle and Mail's pale face was illuminated in blue shadows by the light of his Gameboy. The toy had been reclaimed and fixed as the blonde looked on with his trademark glare in place. They hadn't spoke since they had nearly beat each other bloody but now Mello was determined to break the silence. Quiet moments made him think and what they stirred up made him antsy. _

"_You've got a bit of a temper," the blonde commented from his position on the bed across the room, resting his textbook in his lap and making the already-loose spine flex even more._

_Mail scoffed. "You're one to talk," the boy said dryly, eyes narrowing slightly. Mello could see them much better now that his trademark goggles lay on the bedside table._

"_When pushed."_

"_Same for me, I guess."_

"_Yeah, I noticed," Mello muttered sourly._

_Frowning as his pixilated avatar met a rather unfortunate death, Mail set the game aside for a moment, staring at his roommate in that critical fashion that always made Mello twitch. "You hit me first."_

"'_Cause you provoked me."_

"_And you provoked me _first_." _

_Mello gave an sigh of irritation. "Fine, I'm an asshole, all right?"_

"_I never said that--"_

"_You didn't have to."_

"_And I don't think that, either," Mail finished evenly, as if he hadn't been interrupted._

_Taken aback, it took Mello a moment to comment. "That's stupid."_

_Mail gave him a wide grin that made the blonde's heart freeze up slightly. "Yeah, probably," he allowed before adding thoughtfully, "You don't seem all that bad, though."_

"_Gee, thanks," the boy bit out, scowling._

_The redhead frowned. "That wasn't an insult, you know. I don't hate you or anything. I'd actually like you a little, too, if you let me," he added a tad bitterly._

_Mello rolled his eyes. "Don't hold your breath on that."_

"_If I did, I'd be dead by now._

_A small, serpentine smirk curled the older boy's lips. "You're really not afraid of me, are you?"_

_Mail cocked his head the side in wonder. "Nope. Sorry."_

_Mello shrugged. "Whatever. It's your funeral."_

"_Somehow, I doubt you'll get me killed," the gamer laughed as he reached for his console once again. "But if you do, just bury me someplace nice."_

_A rough chuckle escaped Mello's lips as he _really _saw the boy for the first time. "Done, my friend." _

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[A/N: Sweet Jesus, these chapters keep getting longer and longer! I decided to take out all the stuff that happened at the SPK, because it's boring and I didn't feel like writing it xD;; Hopefully you all enjoyed my belated third chapter and are hungry for more. Review, maybe? -puppy dog yes- Ah, also, if you have any questions, comments, etc., feel free to message me =D

Also, brownie points to all of you that noticed the following:

--The fire metaphor, and how his passion both saves and ends Mello's life, along with symbolism of his drive devouring his former and current self (the burning of the picture, which also foreshadows his death at the church).

--The fact that Matt's last POV scene of this chapter ends with the idea of Mello's destruction and the last scene with Mello's POV ends with the idea of Matt's destruction. More foreshadowing, which was actually a very interesting coincidence I happened to spot during the editing process

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If not then. . . Well, I hope you liked it anyways, hehehe.

Until next time amigos! (which could be a while, knowing me -shifty eyes- xD;;)]


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